


RE: Halcyon Days

by icefrosty



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Other, Variants - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4622973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icefrosty/pseuds/icefrosty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mount Massive's nameless Warden enjoys a moment of relaxation with one of his patients.</p>
            </blockquote>





	RE: Halcyon Days

**Author's Note:**

> This piece features the wonderful OC that is the Warden, creation of the very talented artist thewarden-at-mtmassive on Tumblr. Based on their short strip featuring an interaction between the Warden and the Silky Variant, who I named Simon for naming purposes. The name suits him, eh? ;)
> 
> Their Warden identifies as genderless, but is not adverse to being referred to with male or female pronouns. I chose to refer to the character as male because, firstly, the character strikes me as masculine, and, especially interacting with another character, I made too many trip ups and confused myself in initial drafts with the use of 'their' and 'them'. It sounded too much as if I was referring to more than one person. I hope I don't offend or take away from the awesomeness of the character.
> 
> I expanded the first scene depicted in the original comic, only a little, just to give a sort of closure to the scene and further establish the Warden and Simon's relationship, as well as the relationship between the Warden and his position. I hoped to give the next scene a bit more context to it
> 
> I highly recommend checking out the inspiration for this piece! Their blog is awesome!

‘I really appreciate that you would do this for me.’

The Warden’s voice was soft and clipped as he sat in one of the available seats overlooking the basketball court. It was early evening, and there were not very many patients out. The few there were seemed more interested in taking in the fresh air and stretching their legs than playing ball.

The Warden quietly observed the patients in his field of vision while giving his legs a well-earned break. He had been on his feet from the early hours of the morning and had not stopped for more than a few minutes until now. While the Warden was used to the routine, even he needed to stop once in a while.

The slight chill in the crisp mountain air told him autumn was fast approaching, and as such his usual bun hairstyle was on the fast track to impracticality. A warmer and more comfortable braid was in order; something currently being attended to by a patient by the name of Simon.

Simon hummed a tune as he worked. He was in no hurry to finish, and the Warden wouldn’t have it otherwise. Gazing at the deep shades of orange dyeing the sky, listening to the birds in the trees, feeling the breeze on his skin, the Warden could almost convince himself that nothing was wrong. Not with the asylum, not with Murkoff, not with the world. Not anything. This perfect calm was as cruel as it was beautiful. 

Simon, for his part, seemed only glad to indulge in this moment of peace. The Warden could hear the smile in the patient’s voice as he spoke. Even though he could not see it, the Warden knew from the moments of relaxation they had shared that it was a broad, boyish smile that drew the more talkative patients to him.

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I enjoy it a lot.’

The Warden could feel Simon’s fingers carefully weaving the long black strands. At five foot in height, the Warden was dwarfed by Simon, but the patient was one of the precious few patients he trusted so close and personal with him. Nevertheless, he clasped the hilt of his sword in both hands, its tip resting on the ground. With the grudging consent of his superiors, the Warden kept his weapon with him at all times.

‘It’s been so long since… I’ve even touched hair,’ Simon went on bashfully. ‘I-it brings me back to my barber days.’

 _So these were his happy days,_ the Warden thought, _before Mount Massive…_

Unperturbed by the lack of reply, Simon carried on braiding. Perhaps the future was looking a little brighter than it had in previous months, and Simon believed it. Or perhaps Simon had merely come to live for these brief moments of peace.

The Warden hoped it was the first.

After a moment, he said:

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking you to keep this a secret.’

Simon stopped.

‘A secret?’ he repeated.

The Warden hated to bring Simon back to reality, but at Mount Massive, reality was the only weapon the patients had. If any of them could hope to take back what Murkoff had stolen from them, they had to cling to what was real with tooth and nail.

‘If they find out you’re getting better,’ the Warden explained, ‘doing this will get you in trouble.’

There was a pause as Simon absorbed his advice.

‘I see.’

The Warden felt Simon deftly tying the knot on the finished braid before taking a step back to admire his handiwork.

‘All done!’ he announced. The Warden stood, turning to face the patient.

‘Thank you. I’ll be sure to request your services again.’

Simon beamed, and the Warden detected a light blush on the young man’s cheeks. He also noticed that the patient's scars, etched around the sides of his bald head, across the bridge of his nose and by the corners of his mouth, were healing well.

The patient looked as if his birthday had come early.

‘Really? Great!’ he gushed. He hovered, fidgeting a little, before giving a shy wave. ‘Well, um… good night, Warden.’

The Warden returned the gesture.

‘Good night, Simon.’

They parted, the sun dipping slowly below the horizon. With the order from the Warden, the remaining patients began to slowly file into the building. The asylum’s towering facade was darkening, and the Warden watched as Simon and the others disappeared inside, as if swallowed up.

If he could save them. God, if he could save them…

* * *

‘A secret…I want…’

The muffled, feverish mumblings came out in pieces, uttered from a mouth gagged by bandages. It was the mouth of a young man incapable of understanding what he needed to tell, or whom to tell it to. With eyes hidden behind more taut fabric, blood caked in places where they had broken the skin, Simon could only wander, barefoot and blind, round and round the arena of Prison Block D. Here, in the quiet, as detached from the riot raging through Mount Massive as could be, Simon mumbled his way deeper into insanity.

‘I… I need to tell you… a secret...’

And on and on. Did somewhere in his broken mind reside the memory of that quiet afternoon where life was worth living?

The Warden watched him from the iron gates and prayed it did.

‘You poor thing,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to save you…’

Simon froze, then turned – eagerly, desperately shuffling toward the direction of the Warden’s voice; longing, aching for contact.

Tears in his eyes, the Warden retreated into the darkness. Simon’s muffled pleas followed him down the passageway leading to the only future either of them had left.  

_‘Don’t be afraid. I want to be your friend…’_


End file.
